Whisper of the Moon Raven
In the stillness where pine shadows weave,
The Moon Raven waits on a bone-white limb.
Eyes like ink in a midnight sieve,
He knows the secrets sung in hymn.
He was born from smoke and silver flame,
The sky's own keeper, dark and wise.
He carries sorrow, carries name,
Of all who passed beneath these skies.
With feathers dipped in ancient lore,
He speaks in echoes only heard
By those who walk the spirit shore,
And dream in rhythm with the bird.
They say he flies between the veils,
Where time is wound in sacred rings.
He watches as the fire pales—
A messenger of deeper things.
So if you hear a rustle low,
And see no wind, yet branches bend,
The Raven's watching from the glow...
The beginning where the endings end.
